


The Run

by littleblackfox



Category: Captain America (Movies), Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5k of madness, Also Kissing, Assassin's Guild, Footnotes, I don't know how to tag this, M/M, Punne or a play on words, The Stucky/Discworld crossover no one knew they wanted, obvs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 23:18:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8820223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackfox/pseuds/littleblackfox
Summary: When an assassin reaches the end of his final year, he must undertake a final exam known as 'The Run', which consists of an oral test, a run through an obstacle course at night in Ankh-Morpork and the targeted killing of a single individual.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FowlProse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FowlProse/gifts).



> 'Write me a stucky Discworld fic', my amoral crackpot clone said.  
> So I did.

Bucky settles the blowpipe on the ledge of the roof of the Mended Drum, keeping his head low. He pushed the dart, it’s tip dipped in a particularly noxious potion distilled from the Ankh itself ( _that_ had been an interesting afternoon and no mistake), into the pipe and pointed it in the direction of Ambrose Spore, a minor figure in the chef’s Guild.  
Spore wasn’t a bad man per se, just overly fond of raspberry coulis and foams that resemble cat sick, and as far as Bucky was concerned, that was reason enough to kill him.  
That, and the Guild wouldn’t look favourably on him missing his final target.  
He takes aim, watching as Spore pauses to examine some fungus growing on a nearby wall, no doubt planning on adding it to his latest menu as a _wild harvested_ ingredient, and his idiot clientele would certainly think it worth shelling out extra dollars for something that looked and tasted like toe blisters.  
Bucky takes a deep breath, calculating distance and trajectory with a snipers eye.  
“HELLO BUCKY”  
And promptly inhales the dart.  
He coughs and spits it out. He’s fallen into the Ankh-well, broken through the crust-enough times as a kid to be fairly immune to the diseases that flourish in the chewier parts of the great river. All the same, that dart was neither quick not easy to make. He glares at the figure that has appeared beside him, tall and wrapped in a cloak with an excess of bones and an absence of flesh, and twin blue lights in the skull where eyes should probably be.  
Though, if you think about it, given the rest of him, actual eyes would be pretty unpleasant.  
Bucky picks up the dart and studies it, crooked feathers and all.  
“Hey, warn a guy, would ya! Nearly choked.” He frowns. “If you cause my death does it still count? Because that’s intervening in the great scheme of things, right?”  
Death considers the question for a moment. Bucky elbows him in the ribs. His actual ribs. “Unless you’re here for Spore? Tell me you’re here for Spore. It’s the The Run, see, and I really need to get into the Guild.” He looks uncomfortable. “You know what they do to failed students at the Assassins Guild.”  
Death shakes his head. “NO. WHAT DO THEY DO?”  
Bucky pales. “You don’t know either?”  
Death looks nonplussed, or at least Bucky thinks he does. It’s hard to tell when there’s so little… _face_ … to work with.  
“DO YOU REMEMBER WHEN FIRST WE MET, JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES?”  
Oh gods, his full name. This can’t be good.  
“No?” Bucky offers, as Ambrose Spore walks away down the street.  
“I HAD COME TO REAP THE SOUL OF STEPHEN GRANT ROGERS, AGED SEVEN AN A BIT, AND YOU REFUSED ME.”  
Bucky watches his target amble away. “Yeah, sounds familiar.”  
“YOUR EXACT WORDS WERE ‘Get away from ‘im, or I’ll kick you inna fork’,” Death offers.  
Bucky cringes, he had actually made good on his threat, and put his boot somewhere in the folds of Death's cloak, only to be met with a dull ringing sound. The physical manifestation of the concept of death had taken it all quite well.  
“AND AFTER THAT WE CAME TO AN UNDERSTANDING.”  
Bucky pales as realisation dawns, horrible and inevitable.  
“THAT SHOULD THE IMMORTAL SOUL OF STEPHEN GRANT ROGERS BE IN PERIL, I SHOULD COME AND TELL YOU OR YOU WOULD RIP MY NON CORPOREAL NIPPLES OFF.”  
Bucky sighs. “Steve.”

Steve, small, skinny and pugnacious to a degree where it’s not entirely explicable how so much righteous indignation and knobbly elbows can be fitted into such a small space without some sort of wizardly time and space bending, is currently in one of the many back alleys that make up The Shades, blood in his teeth and his fists raised at the two Rude Boys who have him cornered. He’s listing a little on his feet, and the boys are patiently waiting for him to keel over so they can roll him and sell off any bits that are left over to interested parties.  
“Hey assholes!” a voice calls behind them.  
They turn around in unison to see Bucky Barnes bearing down on them. Bucky Barnes with the killer right hook, student on the fast track in the Assassin's Guild. He could probably kill them both with a glare before he’d even laid a finger on them.  
Bucky does lay a finger on them, four in fact, with a bonus thumb, and they stumble into the shadows, muttering and whimpering while Bucky helps Steve up to his feet.  
Steve brushes away the trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth with a clumsy swipe of his thumb. “I had ‘em on the ropes,” he wheezes.  
“Yeah, I know you did,” Bucky says softly, surreptitiously checking the colour of his lips and the movement of his pupils. “Should I even ask?” he says ruefully, when he’s sure he doesn’t need to drag Steve down to Boffo’s Joke Emporium* for a once-over.  
“They were beating on Little Al,” Steve mutters.  
Oh.  
Bucky glances down the lane, wondering if he can still catch up with the pair and beat the living tar out of them. The sleeve of his jacket hisses and he gives it an absent minded pat.  
Little Al (not his real name**), the son of Big Al (not his real name**), who has run the Klatchian coffee house for as long as Bucky can remember. He’s always had a soft spot for Steve and Bucky, slipping them pieces of pungently spiced and seeded flatbread or sticky pastries filled with dried fruits when money was tight at home, growing up. Bucky had even had his first taste of Klatchian coffee at Al’s.  
“Is there any point in suggesting you try getting yourself some backup before wading into a fight?”  
Steve snorts. “Like who? You know what people are like around here.”  
Bucky sighs and rubs his hand over his face. Yeah, he knows.  
He throws his arm around Steve’s shoulder. “C’mon, let's go find Little Al. Kid shouldn’t be out here on his own.”

They walk along the docks, calling until they find Little Al hiding behind a stack of crates, refusing to come out. Bucky has always been the better of the pair when it comes to dealing with kids, so he sits cross legged on one of the crates where he knows Little Al can hear him.  
“Hey Steve, remember when we snuck out of the house one night to look for pirates? You were sleeping at my place because your Ma was working nights, so we rucked up our blankets to make it look like we were still sleeping, and put our coats and boots on over our pyjamas and came down to the docks.”  
Steve nods, still dabbing at his nose, and gives Bucky a crooked little smile. “You were _scared_.”  
Bucky snorts. “Damn right, I was scared! And you just kept charging on, and got us all turned around and we ended up in The Shades. _The Shades_ , Stevie.”  
Steve grins. “Only thing scarier than being in The Shades was the thought of our Ma’s ever finding out.”  
Bucky chuckles. “Your Ma finding out.”  
Steve blinks rapidly. “Yeah.” He sniffs and rubs at his nose. “But we found pirates.”  
Bucky uncrosses his legs and drops down from the crate. “Well, he’s not here. Let's go.”  
There is a scrambling amongst the boxes, and Little Al’s round face appears.  
“NO!” he yelps. “I wanna hear about the pirates!”  
Bucky manages to suppress a laugh, and gives Little Al a look of mock surprise. “There you are!” He scoops the kid up and drops him onto his shoulders, wincing when the kid grabs twin handfuls of his hair to keep himself balanced and gripping him loosely by the ankles. They walk quickly, keeping close together as they talk loudly about battling pirates and seeking treasure, until they’re clear of the shades and back into the normal level of mild peril in the backstreets of Ankh-Morpork.  
When they see the Klatchian Coffee House up ahead Little Al freezes up.  
“Are you going to tell my _alab_?”  
Bucky can feel the kid trembling under his hands and glances at Steve, who gives the boy a stern look.  
“Are you going to do it again?”  
The kid shakes his head rapidly, “Nossir! Not even for pirates!”  
Steve’s mouth twists up as he tries not to smile. “Well, in this case we can make an exception. What d’you think, Buck?”  
Bucky pretends to think it over while little all wriggles and tugs desperately at his hair.  
“Mmmm. Okay,” he offers finally, swinging the boy to the ground.  
He lets out a garbled shriek and runs down to his father's shop, forgetting about the pair almost instantly.

Bucky gives Steve another furtive once over. There’s an impressive bruise forming on his cheek but otherwise he seems okay.  
“You gotta be more careful, Stevie,” he says quietly as they start walking down the street, carefully angling themselves away from the Coffee House.  
Steve snorts. “If I’m gonna be in the Watch I’ve gotta be able to hold my own in a brawl.”  
Bucky rolls his eyes. “Not this again, Steve!” He can’t keep the exasperation out of his voice. “You can’t join the Watch.”  
As soon as the words leave his mouth Bucky realises his mistake. The word ‘can’t’ to Steve Rogers is like waving a red rag at a bull. An already extremely angry bull that’s just looking for a dumbass volunteer to get gored.  
“Aw c’mon, Buck. I know you don’t think I can do this, but I can! They do important work in the Watch,” Steve isn’t quite yelling, but it’s close.  
“Well, they do important work in the Guild of Cunning Artificers,” Bucky counters.  
Steve comes to a halt and glares at him, his mouth a flat line.  
“You got a real talent for that stuff, Steve. They’d snap you up if you just applied.” Bucky comes to a stop a few paces ahead, turning to face him.  
“I’m not gonna sit in a studio all day Bucky, not when there are people out there laying down their lives to keep us safe.”  
Bucky snorts. “The only laying down Sgt Colon does is for his afternoon nap!”  
Steve clenches his jaw. “I want to make a difference, and I’m not gonna do that painting bowls of fruit.”  
Bucky shakes his head. “They won’t take you, Steve.”  
“They take all sorts now, they’ve got a werewolf, and a troll.” He looks briefly triumphant, “They’ve got Nobby Nobbs and no one’s even sure what he is!”  
“I spent nearly twenty years keeping you alive, Steve. I’m not gonna watch you get yourself shanked over some petty theft.”  
Steve glares at him. “And what about you?! Assassins Guild?”  
Bucky scowls. “It a respectable career! And it pays well, or at least it will if I ever finish this final exam. And I don’t particularly fancy spending another winter hauling crates of fish down at the docks the next time your lungs give out and we need money for medicine.”  
Steve pokes Bucky in the chest with a finger. “I never asked you! You constantly mollycoddle me and treat me I’ll break at the first gust of wind.” He jabs a little harder. “I never asked for your pity or your help!”  
“Sarah did,” Bucky says quietly.  
Steve’s expression goes oddly flat, his finger still pressed to the centre of Bucky’s chest. “You leave my Ma out of this.”  
Bucky reaches up and wraps his hand around Steve’s wrist, gently pressing his fingers to the fine, fragile bones. “She told me to take care of you, Stevie. That’s all I’m trying to do.”  
Steve snatches his hand away. “Don’t bother,” he spits. “I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone.”  
He turns and storms away, leaving Bucky stood in the middle of the street, staring after him.  
There is a whistling sound, and he twitches his head to the side, watching as a poison dart embeds itself in the doorway beside him.  
Aww, balls. He’s still got an exam to finish.  
He checks the area, and makes his way north, brushing his fingers across his belt, where a selection of well concealed knives are arranged.

Big Al had once told Bucky, over a cup of bitter, tarry coffee, that assassination was a Klatchian invention. Back when the rest of the disc were whacking each other over the head for the least burnt bits of meat or because someone looked at you funny, the Klatchians trained gentlemen assassins. They also built empires and mapped stars and came up with the number ‘0’, which was important for some reason.  
Bucky had listened, fascinated (not so much about the ‘0’ thing. What’s so special about nothing? Bucky has had nothing most of his life, and doesn’t find it the least bit interesting). The work itself had been intriguing, but didn’t especially appeal to him as anything other than an interesting challenge. He’d been in his share of fights, knew which ribs to put a blade between when a feller was being more trouble than he was worth, and needed stopping quickly and quietly. But he took no pleasure in the act.  
And yes, the money. He and Steve shared a single room above a pub on the corner of Cockbill street and Lavender Mews (in The Shades of all places. But the neighbours were decent enough, if a little unconventional, and Bucky supposed the same could be said about him and Steve). They had lived there since Sarah Rogers had passed and Ma Barnes had pursed her lips at the notion of another mouth to feed. Bucky didn’t blame her, three kids were more than enough to deal with without taking on a fourth who looked unlikely to see his next Hogswatch. So he’d taken the money saved from working at the docks unloading cargo and found them a drafty little room to share, insisting that Steve take the narrow bed while Bucky took the floor, usually flattening himself under the bed.  
It wasn't much of a life, but it was theirs. And if he could just get through this damnable exam, he’d find work and get them someplace better. Someplace where the wind didn’t rattle through the eaves and there was hot water aplenty.

It had taken a lot of convincing to get himself into the Assassins Guild, it usually being the provenance of hoity types who wanted their equally hoity progeny well versed in the art of speaking pointless dead languages, making letters and squiggles do the work of numbers and playing musical instruments. So Bucky had applied himself, and mastered conjoined verbs, the value of x and the piano, though his tutor had yet to figure out that most of his compositions were just slower and more flourishy versions of the bawdy drinking songs they played downstairs in the bar at night. So ‘fire down below’ became ‘Composition #3’ and ‘bury me in a Y shaped coffin’ became ‘Lament’.  
‘The Run’ was the final exam a student had to undertake to become a bells ‘n’ whistles*** full blown member of the Guild. An oral test, in both Latatian and Morporkian, a night time run through an obstacle course (his hip still ached from the nasty fall he’d taken while trying to climb the wall of Bell Tower, not to mention all the bites and stings from climbing the Cloisters while Madame Romanov, head of Black Widow house, had thrown a variety of poisonous creatures at him).  
He had taken a moment to be grateful for her insistence that he develop immunity to a variety of poisons while an overly enthusiastic black-horned dangernoodle had wriggled into his vestments and gnawed on his shoulder. He’s pretty sure it’s still curled up somewhere in his clothes, taking a nap.  
The final part of the challenge was the targeting killing of a chosen individual, the unlucky Mr Spore, while there was a bounty on Bucky’s head. He’d been fairly safe while in The Shades, but out in the open he was a target. A bruised, bitten and bad tempered target.  
Bucky slips between the shadows, making his way across the rooftops until he reaches ‘Flotsam’, Spores tedious restaurant.  
There were no tables or chairs, and customers had to eat their meals off pieces of roofing tiles that still had moss and fungal blooms clinging to them. Bucky slips down into the yard behind the kitchen, where the sacks of potatoes and carrots were stored. His poison dart is useless, and he could use a knife to finish the job, but that would be messy and inelegant. Plus, he’d probably spoil the food laying around.  
He scratches at the worst of the bites at his shoulder, and hears a soft hiss.  
Ah.  
He reaches into his leather coat and gently extracts the serpent. It’s fairly small, no thicker than a pencil at its midsection, but no less poisonous. Bucky spots a dish of spindly little weeds, spiky textured and peppery enough to make him sneeze, and lays the creature in the centre, scattering a few stray sprigs over the top of him while it curls up and glowers at him. Bucky wedges himself into a hiding place in the shadows between the outhouse and the kitchen wall amongst the spiders and rats, and waits.  
It’s not long before Ambrose makes an appearance, holding a flat, terracotta slab in one hand with a few small cubes of potato and wobbly slices of funny looking cheese carefully arranged on it. He rummages around in a small barrel of nuts, picking out some small, hard acorns and placing them on the plate before reaches out for a handful of weeds to scatter on top. there is a hiss and a slight movement, and he yelps, dropping the weeds and shoving his thumb in his mouth, sucking on it.  
“Blasted thorns,” he mutters and goes back inside.  
Bucky creeps out of his hiding place, snagging the angry little noodle from the bowl of leaves and climbing back onto the roof. He props himself up against a chimney pot, wrapping the creature around his neck. It hisses reproachfully and tucks itself under his collar. Bucky strokes its head absently while he listens, nodding approvingly when there is a low, heavy thud from inside, and several frantic calls of alarm.

He makes his way across the rooftops, working his way south and then west to The Shades, and home. The day is dragging to an end and he’s exhausted, on his feet for too long, and wants nothing more than to curl up in his blankets and sleep for at least a week.  
Okay, maybe eat a hot pie and put some salve on the worst of his bites. Because being immune to the toxins of several venomous creatures with an excess of limbs or eyes (he pats the little noodle at his throat, because not enough limbs is _fine_ , little guy) doesn’t stop them from itching. Then he’ll sleep for a week.  
He hesitates, slipping down from a low roof and onto the streets. He also needs to talk to Steve.  
Okay. Talk to Steve, then eat a hot pie, put some salve on his wounds and sleep for a week.  
Bucky takes a detour to pick up a couple of unspecified meat pies, hoping that they will suffice as a peace offering, and takes one of the shaded back alleys to Lavender Mews.  
He nods good evening to the various types hanging around outside the bar, some who seem surprised to see him, but make a point of congratulating him on not being dead yet.  
Bucky climbs the stairs, taking one step at a time, his vision blurring a little at the edges from exhaustion, the still-warm paper bag clenched in his right hand.  
He unlocks the door, pushing it open slowly.  
“Steve?” he calls out softly.  
The room is dark. He moves easily through the shadows, setting the bag on the floor and feeling for the lantern they keep by the bed. He takes a book of matches from inside his coat and strikes one, the room flooding with sulphurous yellow light.  
He doesn’t set it to the lamps wick. In the brief, bright flare of light he could see that the room was empty, Steve was gone.

Bucky didn’t need to do a thorough search of the room to know that all of Steve’s possessions had been shoved into his satchel, along with his sketchbook and a single pencil, sharpened down to a nub.  
He sighs and picks up the bag of pies, locking the door behind him on the way out.  
The Assassins guild set a lot of store by many skills; which of the thirty seven items of cutlery offered at a swanky dinner party is used and in which order (as well as a dozen different ways to kill your fellow diners with each one, even the pomegranate straw), travelling unseen and tracking a mark.  
But Bucky didn’t need any of his hard earned skills to find Steve, who was exactly where Bucky expected him to be, under the arches of the Ankh bridge where the steps lead down to the water, brackish and crusted. Where they had once huddled together and waited for pirates as children.  
Bucky wastes no time picking his way down the bank to join him, sitting on the algae covered step at his side, a little space between them.  
He holds out the paper bag and shakes it. “Pie,” he says softly. “Get ‘em while they’re… uh. Tepid.”  
Steve snorts, but makes no move to look at Bucky or accept his peace offering.  
Bucky sighs and sets the bag on the step between them. He watches the sun set over the water. He’s tired. So damned tired he can’t see clearly. He rubs his nose with the back of his hand. “You can join the Watch if you want,” Bucky says into the silence. “I won’t stop you.”  
Steve turns to him. “There’s a lot of animosity between the Watch and the Assassin’s Guild,” he utters thickly, his voice catching.  
Bucky shrugs. “If you pick a career based on who we haven’t had a rumble with at some point, that doesn’t give you much.”  
Steve snorts. “Actors Guild?”  
Bucky shakes his head. “Remember? ‘Much ado about much adoings?’ You socked Benedict Curlicues in the jaw.”  
Steves features crease into a happy, faraway expression. “Yeah, I did.”  
Bucky watches the way Steve smiles, and feels an odd, painful tug in his chest.  
The world is charging forward and it’s all he can do to keep up. Clacks and stamps and steam, and all the little familiar things that he holds tightly to his chest are changing too.Steve is no different. He’s charging forward into the new world along with everything else, and nothing Bucky can do will hold him back for long. And Bucky shouldn’t even think to try. For all that Steve is skinny and small his heart burns fierce and bright, like those birds made out of sunlight in Hersheba.  
Bucky pushes the bag of pies a little closer to his friend. If the Watch take him on, and maybe they will, maybe they’ll see his fierce, bright heart and teach him how to temper its heat. Bucky can’t begrudge him that chance.  
And, if he’s leaving anyway, what can it hurt to tell him the truth?

“I would’ve looked out for you anyway,” Bucky says, pulling the collar of his jacket up against the chill. “Even if your Ma hadn’t asked.”  
Steve crosses his arms over his chest and gives Bucky a crooked smile. “I know you would, Buck.”  
Bucky shakes his head. “No, you don’t. I would have done it because I like you. Always liked you.”  
Steve frowns. “I like you too.”  
Bucky bites his lower lip and kicks his heel against the step below. “I mean I like you. I’m…” he hisses in frustration. “You know Charlie, at the Guild of Seamstresses?”  
In recent years the Guild of Seamstresses had been accepting male members, none of whom could darn a sock or turn a heel, much like the female members.  
“Charlie Jackpot?” Steve asks. “He works in that gentleman's club. Not the one with the ladies who wear tassels and put their clothes on, the other one****.” Steve blinks slowly. “The one that’s much more nicely decorated. And… there’s no ladies there at all.”  
Bucky waits as the penny teeters a little and finally drops.  
“...Oh,” Steve says quietly.  
“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “Oh.”  
Steve wraps himself up a little bit tighter, pulling his knees under his chin. They sit in uncomfortable silence. Bucky wasn’t sure what reaction he had been expecting. Something positive would have been favourable, but unlikely, in all the scenarios he had imagined over the years. A fist to the jaw was, in all honesty, what he was expecting. He never thought it would be silence.  
He’d prefer the fist.  
Bucky takes a deep breath and stands up. “You should go home, Steve. It’s getting cold.”  
Steve says nothing, just shakes his head minutely. “Really, go home. I’m gonna go back to the Guild house. I need to report in after The Run anyway.” Bucky pats down his pockets, half convinced he’s forgotten something. He feels off balance, probably due to his heart falling out of his chest and shattering on the stone steps in front of him. He sniffs, rubbing his sleeve under his nose.  
“I’ve got a room there, it’s about time I used it. You can leave a message at Raven House if you need to get in touch, and, y’know’, let me know where I can leave stuff for you. I’ll send you half of what I make until you get yourself settled…”  
“Bucky,” Steve murmurs.  
“Just for a little while, okay? I promised.”  
“Bucky,” Steve raises his voice a little, and Bucky lets his mouth snap shut. “Since when?” Steve asks quietly.  
Bucky kicks a loose stone into the river, and watches in float for a moment before being sucked into the depths. “Since forever? I don’t know.”  
Steve reaches up and tugs on the hem of his jacket. “Sit down, eat your pie.”

Bucky sits down on the step below Steve, his shoulders hunched. Steve offers him the paper bag, and he takes his pie, long since gone cold. He shoves it into his pocket, the thought of food makes his stomach churn.  
“D’you remember when I turned fifteen?” Steve asks quietly.  
Bucky folds his hands together, slowly wringing his fingers. “Yeah, I couldn’t afford to get you anything, so I snuck you into the Four Daughters to see a show.”  
Steve picks at the crust of his pie. “They were nice ladies, didn’t mind having to sit in a big birdcage for ages, and they were really kind to the old men in there too.”  
Bucky gives him a fond little smile, and resists the urge to ruffle his hair. “You were so worried about that girl in the giant horn of ale.”  
“It wasn’t hygienic, Buck!”  
“Still got us kicked out,” Bucky chuckles.  
Steve hums in agreement. “All those pretty girls,” he murmurs. “I watched them dancing and didn’t feel a thing.” He sighs and carefully puts his uneaten pie in his satchel. “I used to meet you from work, remember? I’d come down to the docks and wait for you to finish your shift. I’d get there early and get out my sketchbook, and I’d think of drawing the quays, or the ships, but I’d just chew on my pencil and watch you rolling barrels down to shore.”  
Bucky twists his fingers together, thinks about coming off shifts with his shirt clinging to his back with sweat and a handful of dollars in his pocket, to find Steve waiting for him face flushed from sitting in the sun too long and sketchbook in his lap.  
Steve who would hug his satchel to his chest and refuse to meet Bucky’s eye as they walked home.  
“You’d give me that big, dumb grin and it would make my stomach ache,” Steve turns to face him. “And everything hurt, y’know. My back, my lungs, my feet. But it was different. Sweeter, sharper, and it never went away.” Steve plucks at the collar of Bucky’s jacket. “Does it hurt when I look at you? Like there’s something heavy in your stomach?”  
Bucky stares at him for a moment. “Yes.”  
Steve bows his head and presses his mouth to Bucky’s, their lips just brushing before he pulls away. He doesn’t look scared, or angry. He looks quietly pleased.  
“Hold that thought,” Bucky whispers, and reaches under his collar. The noodle, skin warmed and sleepy, lets itself be unwound from bucky’s neck, curling around his fingers. He tucks it into his shirt pocket, where it bundles up and goes back to sleep.  
Bucky buttons up his jacket and looks back up at Steve, blue eyes sparkling.  
“Where were we?” Bucky murmurs as Steve leans down to kiss him again.  
Bucky runs his tongue along the seam of Steve’s lips until they part, welcoming. Steve tucks his hands under Bucky’s jaw, cradling as they trade slow, open mouthed kisses, the last one not even ending before the next begins.  
Time flows like honey, bright and sweet, until they finally, finally break apart.  
“C’mon,” Bucky breathes into Steve’s mouth, soft and warm, “Let’s go home.”

\----------

*Bucky has no time for the Guild of Barber-Surgeons, who had a rather cavalier attitude to medicine, favouring the ‘lop it off and see if he lives’ approach. Since Bucky is pretty sure that Steve wouldn’t last long if they hacked out his dodgy lungs, bad heart and crooked spine, he favours the services of Mrs Proust, Witch, who runs Boffos Joke Emporium. She doesn’t insist on chanting or praying or any mumbo jumbo, preferring instead to give Steve a variety of weird looking exercises and funny tasting twigs to be brewed into tea.  
The stubbornness she says is incurable.

**His real name being one of those Klatchian numbers that go on far too long and sound like the noise you make when you’ve forgotten the middle part of the song you’re singing.

***Or, if you rather, knives and ampoules

****Ankh Morpork is home to a number of Gentlemen's Clubs, where the gentlemen in question witness ladies of purchasable virtue perform interpretive dances in their undercrackers. It is also home to a small number of other Gentlemen's clubs, such as the Blue Cat Club, where the gentlemen prefer the company of other gentlemen, especially the ones that perform interpretive dance in their undercrackers


End file.
